


Dandelion & Burdock

by fx_muldr



Series: The Life and Times of John H. Watson [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi, POC cast bc why the fuck not, Slow Burn, Tags will be added when needed, no bashing of irene adler in this i swear, the adventures of sherlock holmes but shitposting everywhere i can
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-06-14 05:14:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15381417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fx_muldr/pseuds/fx_muldr
Summary: London, England 2018;16-year-old John H. Watson has arrived home from abroad, and upon his return...he promptly gets thrown out of his house.A few days after crashing at his best friend Mary Morstan's home, (successfully taking his dog with him) an offer for a shared flat at 221B Baker Street presents itself.aka, the multi-chaptered slow-burn kid-fic that came to me last night and now I can't stop thinking about it.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A kid-fic I made purely for fun and to get me back into writing. It's obviously not going to be a masterpiece but I hope you enjoy it nevertheless.

August 15th 2018

John H. Waston was the type of kid who could hold himself well. He knew his manners and the basic principles of how not to be an arsehole. He kept himself educated, watching more than enough 'Not Safe For _Anyone_ ' medical documentaries to further his non-existent career as a doctor. Though poor, sweet, 5ft 3' John did not, however, know how to deal with being kicked out of his own home.

It was a typical, tacky, grey skyed England afternoon when the shouting began. John was tired and jet-lagged and practically asleep by the time the taxi stopped in front of his house. It was small and 'inconveniently' (as his mother put it) attached to two houses on either side, looking like it could collapse at any moment.

Hauling himself inside the building, the boy was met with a barrage of unbridled ridicule from his parents. To put it simply, the Watson's were disappointed with their son's new life changes. He was now old enough (by English standards) to look after himself and get a job. They'd already changed his name for him, a struggle within itself to get done, so now he could take care of the rest for himself.

As always playing the good sport, John happily took their invite to leave...and well, left. He might not have had any blood relatives to turn to, (at least in England, with the rest being back in Afganistan) but at least he had friends. Okay, he had one, but she was worth at least 100 men anyways. Suddenly, the thought reminded him of the one thing he must certainly not leave without.

Advancing silently towards the gate at the side of the house, which luckily was attached to the garden. Through the iron bars, John softly whistled then cooed out, "Toby! boy, you out here?"

For a few moments, it seemed only silence was willing to respond, until, a loud yap rang out, and a small beagle of white, brown and black came bounding towards his call. Toby was a one of a kind pup, rescued from a shelter as soon as he was old enough to leave. He never chewed up shoes, never wrecked his mom's flowers (though he might have used them as a toilet once), and was damned good at picking up tricks.

"C'mere Tobes!" John beckoned and proceeded to laugh with relief at the sight of the canine. Toby's leash was thankfully still latched onto his red collar from a morning walk. He scooped the dog over the gate and safely back into the confines of the boy's care.

Making his way to stand, a sharp, searing pain shot through his left thigh, locking his body in shock, and sending him to the floor. Reluctantly, through quick intakes of breath, John reached out to nurse the phantom pain. Roughly, it had been nearly 2 years since the accident (Not that John particularly wished to be reminded of it). Random attacks were native, but not continuous. He had to learn himself how to deal with his misfortune, no luck trying to get anyone from the family to care for him when they already saw him as a problem to begin with. _not the time to deal with that_ , his mind rang out. As usual, the pain subsided in a matter of moments. Collecting himself as best he could, John, Toby and all his belongings, took off down the road to the one place he knew he could spend the night.

Mary Morstan's.

~ ~ ~

 Mary's street was wildly different from his own. No smell of weed in the alleyways, no potholes, no police sirens...the list could truly carry on. Pretty much the nicest neighbourhood this side of Westminster. He'd only visited a few times before, and still, he couldn't keep gaping at how much it all had to cost.

So it was surprising to hear her voice, loud and very frustrated from the other side. The door was practically wrenched open, and a red-faced, red-haired Mary looked ready to go toe to toe with whoever crossed her. To those who knew her, Mary Elizabeth Morstan was the most decent and optimistic person you could meet, (at least when she wasn't furious) eager to take down oppressors, bullies, The Bourgeoisie etc. You name it and she had a plan for it.

"Emily, I told you not to come back."

"Sup, Mares?" John quipped, extending his arms as far as his haul of bags would let him. A grin plastered onto his bearly awake self.

"John, didn't you just get back to the UK like, today? Why are you all the way down here? It's getting dark out, you know your mother doesn't-"

"My mom's fine with it. Trust me." Mary sighed in response, hanging her head before gasping.

"You poor thing!"

"Well, I-" John began, just as she crouched down.

"Lemme get you something to eat, Toby" She cooed, picking the beagle up and heading back into the house. And John, with nothing to say from the exchange, simply dragged himself inside the ridiculously expensive household.

"I'll pop him down next to Gladstone!" Mary called from the kitchen, followed by the sets of hard paws of her bulldog, skittering on the white marble ( _marble!_ ) flooring as Mary opened up a can.

"Who's that there with you, Mary?" A rough, hoarse female voice belted from within the living room across from the kitchen.

Huffing, Mary yelled back "It's my friend John, aunt Sarah. We're just going to head upstairs, okay?" Not bothering to wait for an answer, she turned straight to John. "She gets weird when I don't tell her who's at the door."

Her face, still red with whatever business had happened prior, dropped all sense of irritation as she properly got a look at his appearance. Eyes sore from the lack of sleep, hair wild and unruly, his body weight leaning heavy on his right. He just looked, well, dead inside.

"Oh John, I'm sorry. Sorry, yeah let's um, let's get you to the spare bedroom while you're still able to walk." She said, more to herself then John. With the grace of a beautiful muscular angel, Mary grabbed all of his things and carried them up the flight of stairs with practically no effort, muttering to herself along the way. John nearly forgot to follow her.

~ ~ ~

 

Thinking as clearly as a sleep-deprived person can get, John managed to squeeze out the shortened version of his predicament. Just as naturally one would be, receiving that amount of disturbing news from your best friend, Mary was in fits.

"That's absolute bullshit. Bull! Shit!" She shouted at nothing in particular, pacing the floors enough to wear her socks out.

"I'm well aware, Mares," John cut in, citing her nickname in hopes to calm her. It didn't work.

"Can't parents get punished for that? Please tell me they can. It's 2018 for christ's sake." Disgust was clear in her tone.

Groaning, John flopped onto the double guest bed, running his hands over his face. "Mares, I don't know. I don't think I even care. I'm just so tired." he strained out.

Mary stayed rather quiet for a few moments. Thinking carefully about what to say next, fearing that John might break at a moments notice. She strolled up to the teen, clasped her mighty hands together, and proclaimed with a face full of determination. "Then you're just going to have to live with me then! It's easy, obvious, and you're already here so you might as well!"

However, as if on automatic, John responded instantly, shaking his head. "It wouldn't be right, Mary. I- I can't do that. I wanna start fresh. I thought about it on the way here. Get a flat somewhere, share it with a bloke or girl who I know nothin' about, vice versa. Or I'll just live alone, learn to be 'independent' or whatever. I'm sorry, Mary." His friend had never handled rejection well, taking it harshly as a form of personal criticism. "But hey!," he rapidly added, nearly tripping over his words "I could at least stay with you until I find someplace new?"

She didn't look at him at first, the pair of faded blue eyes concentrating on the floor rather than her friend. At least becoming somewhat affected by his correction, she finally looked back up at him, smiled and then nodded. Before he could get a chance to apologise once again, Mary promptly took on a serious face. The 'Mother Hen' face as John once dubbed it. Which fondly reminded him of a joke they shared the once, a few months back, about how much potential of a power couple they would've been if they both had not been, extremely, wonderfully, and proudly gay as fuck.

"Alright," she spoke, with an authoritarian tone "I respect your decision as your best friend. But, it is my job as your best friend to interrogate you on what you plan to do."

"Argh, can it wait till the morning? I'm beggin' you here."

"Then beg. You think prisoners get to go to sleep during interrogations? Nonsense!"

_no god no_ , his mind protested _not this shit again_

"I'm not a member of The Bourgeoisie, Mary!"

"That's exactly what a member of The Bourgeoisie would say...that's an incredibly hard word to pronounce. Bour-Bood-Boudwagie. Haha! Boudwagie, oh god that's hilarious."

"Mary."

"Shit my bad, you just got kicked out and now I'm rambling- okay! so," Pulling out a chair from the nearby desk, she sat patiently infront of the bed. "You mentioned you were going to get a flat. Do you have a job to pay for said flat?"

"Uh, no? But I do have a college starting in September. Just morning classes and typing out essays." Mary, having already done one year of college, scrunched up her nose in disdain.

"Well, that's not going to get you money. Lucky for you, though. You didn't take Animal Care BTEC. I'm shuddering at the thought of cleaning out the goat pens again."

"Isn't that what you signed up for though?" John asked, wholly perplexed.

"I signed up to learn how and why animals behave the way they do. Not to give one a colonoscopy."

"Ah," he replied. "touche"

Disgruntled at the way the topic swayed, Mary joined John on the double bed, purposefully landing face first into the sheets with an 'oof'

"Mood."

Rolling over to face the ceiling, red tresses covering her face, she curiously piped up. "How long have you had your binder on for?"

John didn't even have to think. "Like 12 hours or so."

"Jesus Christ, John!" She bolted upright, brows creasing at John's widening grin. "Take it off!"

"You know you're the only woman in the world I'd agree to do that for."

"Same, but really, shut up and get that thing off."

~ ~ ~

  
August 19th 2018

It wasn't long before he managed to get into a slump routine; wake up, eat, watch medical documentaries, take Toby and Gladstone for a walk, eat, evade the ashtray that was Mary's aunt, eat, then sleep, then repeat. Three days to be exact.

He used his time at night, laying above the covers of the rock hard guest bed, to reflect on things. His parents in particular. It was an epiphany when he finally got to see how his parents truly felt. Them breaking the wall of silence, instead of letting it slowly seep through the cracks made him realise one thing; He had to start caring for himself, since they sure as shit weren't going to anymore. They let him go alone up to Herat for his 16th birthday. As he'd expected, his relatives didn't favour his situation any more than his parents. There was the exception of his grandmother who was, surprisingly, the only one who didn't particularly care who he was, as long as he enjoyed her food.

Sometime after 11 am on the fourth day, he managed to catch Mary heading towards the front door as he sauntered down the stairs. "Going someplace nice?" he inquired, "I haven't seen you in that beret since your dad came back from India." In true fashion, she answered with a mock twirl.

"Why thank you. I am off to talk things out with Emily over lunch. It would seem that I owe her a serious apology." Her guilt hinted itself in her stead. For being Mary's best friend, he'd never seemed to learn that much about Emily. He knew Emily was on the same college course as Mary and that the girls had been in a relationship for about half a year, but that's about it. Obviously, he never pressured Mary to talk about her girlfriend, it was nice to know that someone else was there for her.

"You two are still okay though?" John asked, right eyebrow peaked high.

"If my charm still works, then yes. I'll be fine. You, on the other hand, look like shit."

"I feel like shit." He chuckled out, looking through the front window. It looked decently sunny, and at least there was a slight breeze from what he could tell. "Probably going to walk the dogs while its nice out. Take a stroll around Green Park."

"It'll do you good too, getting some fresh air." Mary huffed. "Well, see you in a bit, John. I'll text you when I get back." With a nod and a semi-decent two-finger salute from John, she gracefully exited the house.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Turns out that walking around a serene park, with small dogs trailing in front of you can actually be a refreshing experience. You drown out after a while and focus on the sounds around you; other dogs barking, ducks quacking, children mildly annoying their parents, so on and so forth. That's why he nearly jumped out of his skin when somebody came up behind him and tapped him on his shoulder.

"Fuck me!" he yelped as Toby and Gladstone started to growl behind him at his 'assailant'.

"Well, you could at least ask me to go get dinner first." they began smugly. "Haven't seen you in a while. What's shakin' bacon?"

John whirled around and closed his mouth full of not so very nice words when he found out who it was. Bexley Stamford. Now Bexley was, in fact, a nice kid, when they wanted to be. Bexley was only a year younger than John but with far more charisma than he could ever produce. They shared John's appetite for wanting to become a doctor and had a small time job doing menial tasks at Bart's Hospital. Sure, Bexley wasn't learning about the human body but the experience could come in handy for a job interview.

So after the usual 'nice-to-see-you-too's' John not-so-briefly summarised the events of the past few days, not enjoying the face journey Bexley was displaying. He held up his free hand to stop them from commenting. "I don't want to talk about it. I'm having enough trouble as it is tryin' to find a flat. Who'd wanna room with a sixteen-year-old." The latter was more said as a statement than as a fact.

"Huh." Bexley started. "Someone actually said kinda the same thing to me earlier on. Now how 'bout that?" John, suddenly intrigued, couldn't help but ask who. "It's this guy," they continued, "looks eighteen-ish, up at the chemistry lab at Barts hospital. Kept whining this morning because he couldn't get someone to live with him, even though he complained that the rents free since his brother or summut is payin' for it."

John almost ended up staring at them in disbelief for half a minute. "You-you're not serious? Promise me you're not dickin' around Bexley, I need this-"

"When have I never not been serious?" Bexley stated, looking amused at the call out. "Yes, its bloody real. I'd ask you if you wanna come see him now, but you're a little pre-occupied there." They swirled a finger at the two canines that surrounded John's feet.

"Ah." Was all he could muster before mentally shaking himself. "Could I- or we- meet him tomorrow? You work at Bart's, will he be there?"

"Mate, I doubt he's even gonna go home tonight. So yeah, he'll be here tomorrow. Best to meet me at Bart's at around...twelve-fifteen, my breaks then so I'll take you up there."

John was smiling like an idiot. "Yes! um, yeah that'll be great. Twelve-fifteen, Bart's, got it."

Looks like John's luck was beginning to take a turn for the better after all.


	2. A Study In Scarlet - Mr Sherlock Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John heads to Bart's to meet his possible new flatmate, but it's not exactly what he was expecting.

August 20th 2018

Eighteen minutes and counting down.

Bart's luckily didn't take long to get to, at least when there was no roadwork clogging up traffic. John began to ponder in the backseat of the taxi, trying to not touch a small section of crumbs wedged into the crease of the seat. Sure, Bexley was one to play the odd practical joke, but John was sure that they were telling the truth. Just what exactly was this person going to be like? He made the odd mental sketch of a posh, arrogant, almost aristocratic rich kid in his mind, and shuddered at the premise. He could never deal with that. Trying again, he imagined a laid-back stoner-type who had the odd fixation for chemistry due to his habits but the boy inwardly groaned at the notion, giving up on picturing anything else that wasn't a decent human being.  _Great,_  he mused,  _might as well pair me with a mad fanatic and have done with._

He paid the fare once the cab arrived promptly at his destination, and stepped out, pulling his jacket closer to his person and making sure his bracelet he'd gotten from his Grandmother was secured tightly upon his wrist. Bexley was eventually spotted, leaning against the wall near to the entrance doors, seemingly engrossed in whatever was happening on their phone. After saying 'hello's' to one another, they entered the hospital, John anxiously trailing slightly behind them.

"It's a bit of a miracle situation, 'innit?" John blurted out to get rid of the awkward silence that started to brew between them.

Bexley seemed amused at John's keen nature. "I suppose, but you don't know Sherlock Holmes yet. Yeah, it sounds good, but he can be a little..." they trailed off, trying to carry on with hand gestures. "difficult."

"What'd you mean, like people can't stand him?"

"Not exactly. He's a decent enough bloke. He's just got a weird perspective, a little over-enthusiastic."

John nodded as he listened, and mulled over the name he'd been given. _Sherlock Holmes? what kind of parent names their child Sherlock?_

 _'You forget yourself,'_ a corner of his mind rang  _'you could have any name you wanted and yet you chose...'John'._

Mentally cursing himself, he let the conversation go on. "Is he a medical student then?"

"Not that I know of. Knows his stuff though. I was making a round of drinks one an' I heard him being talked about by some of the nurses, seemed like they were rather impressed with him."

"Fantastic." John drawled out as Bexley hailed for the lift. "He sounds like a riot."

Bexley nearly almost started to chuckle at the premise. "I wouldn't say that. Honestly, he doesn't speak that much to anyone. Though he does have a tendency to strike up random conversations when it fancies him."

"Thank god for that." he breathed out, just as the lift arrived. The doors opened in natural fashion and the teens strolled inside. "I've had enough excitement this week to last a lifetime." While the statement was wildly untrue, it was better off said. 'The thrill of the chase' whether being metaphorical or physical was a treat for John, like finally getting to eat ice-cream after days on a diet, or the feeling you get when a parcel arrives containing something you bought with your hard-earned money. Not that John would tell anyone, of course, given his...past experience.

"Well don't go blaming me if you don't get on with each other, you're the one who wanted to see him after all." Bexley told him firmly. "I've only spoken with him on rare occasions."

"Then it should be easy to turn the offer down." John answered, more confidently then he felt. Noticing that Bexley grumbled under their breath, he felt inclined to add. "Seems to me like you've got a more...negative feeling towards him?"

Bexley shuffled on their feet. They were about to speak but closed off their response when the lift reached the correct floor.

"Bex," John continued, "If you've got something to say about him, then tell me. I won't say anything to him."

As the pair walked along the corridors, Bexley began. 

"Alright, fine. It's not easy to describe the guy. Holmes has the tendency to go overboard when he's experimenting- turns bloody cold-blooded if you ask me. He's the sort that would pop pure alkaline in your fucking tea to see what it would do. Not because he's a tosser, it's just out of curiosity. Honestly, I think that he'd just as well do it to himself. Bit of a fanatic really."

"Okay," John said, very much not okay. "but I guess that's understandable? I've seen people do weirder shit when high off their ass on acid."

“Yeah, but it when it comes down to beating the subjects in the dissecting-rooms with a stick, it get's pretty fucking weird.”

John somehow managed to choke on air while processing this. "Beating the subjects?" he managed to splutter out, while Bexley pounded their hand on his back as they pressed forward.

"Mhm, the old age technique to see how far bruises can produce after they kick the bucket. I was one of the few who was in the room when it happened."

"But he doesn't work here? How the hell does that work?"

"No fucking clue, mate. I don't think anybody does. But we're here now, so you'll get to see for yourself."

~~~

Entering through the pair of white doors that led into the desired chemistry room, John was met with tables and cabinets lined and littered with countless bottles. Surprisingly, John was a little disappointed that it didn't look anything like a 19th-century mad-mans lab, no Bunsen Burners by the dozens flickering with blue flames nor any test tubes filled with strange contents boiling over from their heat.

There was only one other in the room, hunched over one of the tables, clearly absorbed in his work. At the sound of their footsteps, he turned around, his mop of black hair bouncing with the momentum. He sprang from his seat, almost tripping over in the process. Grabbing a small test tube from the workspace and almost cackling maniacally he shouted to Bexley.

"I've found it! I've found it."

In that precise moment, John thought in utter astonishment, awe and honesty.  _You've done it, you've found the most insane college dropout in London. We're going to live and possibly die with this Sherlock Holmes._

Holding the tube in his hand as Sherlock walked towards them, he carried on as if he'd struck a gold mine, face pure with delight. "I've found a new re-agent which is precipitated by haemoglobin, and by nothing else.”

Bexley, never being the one to listen, carefully interrupted the enthusiastic teen to start introductions. "Sherlock Homes, this is John Watson. John...this is Sherlock."

"Ah! Nice to meet you." Sherlock said, finally spotting the other as he grasped John's hand to shake it. Sherlock's grip, he noticed, was seriously far too strong than he looked. He looked the shorter boy up and down swiftly before asking. "You've been in Afganistan I presume?"

Rightfully taken aback, John replied. "Yeah, how'd you know that?"

"Your bracelet has central Asian text on it. Pashto if I'm right. Looks fairly new and the cords aren't frayed or glossed. A family gift I'm assuming. That and due to the fact it's August, a natural time to go on holiday when you'd have no school."

"That was actually brilliant." John stated in amazement, but quickly snapped out of it when he'd registered that Sherlock said 'School' "Well it's a good job i've finished school then. College from what i've heard is a real nightmare."

"Well then," The older one replied. "I wouldn't know, I never actually went myself. Privately, but mostly self-taught."

"Ahem." Bexley mockingly hurled out into their conversation. And it was at this point John remembered they were still holding each other's hands. Sherlock moved first, placing the grasped hand behind his back and John's going to his side as Bexley continued. "This one here's on business. My buddy John wants to take you up on the flat offer you were on about yesterday. So being the hero that I am, I brought you two together."

At this information, Sherlock seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with his new acquaintance. 

“I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street,” he said, facing John “which would suit us down to the ground. You don’t mind strong smells, I hope?”

"Like smoking?" John suggested.

"Absolutely not, I hate the stuff. What I meant to say was-"

"He vapes." Chimed Bexley, not so subtly hiding a smirk. Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes, entering the void where Bexley Stamford wished they didn't exist.

"Yes. Does that bother you, Watson?" He replied.

"Uh," John started, thrown off by the use of his last name. "no, not at all." 

"I generally have chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?”

"Nope."

"Let me see—what else. I don’t open my mouth for days on end sometimes, but that's natural for me, best to just leave me alone, and I’ll come around. What about yourself? Might as well share both our habits while we're here."

John laughed but took on a firm voice when it came down to the deciding factor of whether he'd actually be allowed to live in a flat at Baker Street, nevermind if it was with this guy or not. "I have a dog, he's small-a beagle, he never barks and he's well trained. You allergic?"

Sherlock's eyes seemed to brighten at the mention of his canine. "I'd hate myself if I was. That makes this even better then. I'm sure Martha has no policy against pets."

"Martha?"

"Miss Hudson, the landlady. I'd met her when I went to see the rooms, she's lovely. But back to you."

"I don't like loud noises." John proceeded, cautiously "Bit of a night-owl, and I do have the tendency to be lazy on bad days. Those are the only main ones I can think of right now."

"Does your 'loud noise' category include violins?" the other asked, anxiously.

"It depends on the player," he answered. “A well-played violin is'a treat, a badly played one-"

"Oh, that’s all right," he interrupted, with a joyful sigh. He looked quickly at Bexley before returning. "Well, I think that settles it then. If you meet me outside of here tomorrow, say about one-ish? Then we can go together and get the flat. You'll like the layout, trust me."

"Yes, that perfect-that's great." And with that, the boys shook hands and said their farewells.

~~~

"You gonna tell him?" Bexley inquired after they both left the hospital. John knew what they were on about, but chose to ask anyway.

"Tell him what?"

"That you're...y'know?"

"If it happens comes up then yeah. As long as he uses the correct pronouns there's no problem." It kinda was a problem. He knew he could trust Bexley, given their identity, and Mary given that she was one of the best souls on the planet, but every time it came to saying  _it_ , he faltered every time. It's not that he wasn't proud of himself, absolutely not. It just pained him to see faces fall afterwards, especially after his experience with his parents.  _Though you should never judge_  his mind argued,  _he seemed to like you well enough. And besides, it's not like you're dating the guy, isn't he like seventeen or something?_

"How old did you say he was?" John said.

"Holmes? Eighteen, I think."  _Yikes_ , his thoughts went. "You'll be fine. I doubt he's gonna intimidate you or anything."

"How come he knew that much about my trip? Yeah, he got my bracelet right, but I could've easily gotten it off eBay or summut."

"That’s just his little peculiarity," they said. "A lot have wanted to know how he finds things out. He'll learn more about you than you about him I reckon. See ya around, Johnny boy." Bexley managed to hail a cab for John and walked off with a curt nod.

~~~

Mary took the news rather well when he got back, demanding to come around after he'd settled in with his new acquaintance. "Oh my god, you're roommates." she proclaimed, falling into a fit of giggles straight after.

He excused himself from her laughter and headed upstairs one last time for bed. It wasn't surprising that he still had no messages or calls from his parents. It took him all his willpower not to delete their numbers, just in case. Just in case that one day, one day, they would ask for forgiveness. He wouldn't go back,  _it's too late for that now_. He could forgive them but it was highly unlikely. All he could do was wait, and look forward to the next day.

"Sherlock Holmes" He breathed, laying in the guest bed that night. "This better be a good decision."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Clasps hands together and shouts* I DONT KNOW HOW ONE BUYS FLATS. 
> 
> Ahem, I'm taking more lines/material from the Sherlock canon now, so hopefully, updates will be quicker than expected. I'll be doing chapters based on the content within what's there in the books. (this is a really book heavy based fic, but like, gayer.) Also, I have the order in which everything will be written so I won't have to worry about what comes next!
> 
> Thanks for all those who left kudos and comments etc! Gives me hope that this is worth writing <3


	3. A Study In Scarlet - The Science of Deduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John Watson tries to understand the human mess that is Sherlock Holmes, and a letter is delivered.

August 21st 2018

The boys (and Toby) made it in one piece to Baker Street, hopes in tow. The place, in fact, was utterly delightful. It consisted of two comfortable bedrooms and a single large airy living-room, cheerfully furnished and illuminated by two broad windows. Though as long as John could place his laptop on a flat surface, he was fine.

The landlady, Miss Hudson-

"Call me Martha, 'Miss Hudson' makes me sound like I'm old-which I'm not. I'm twenty-nine and don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

was a woman up and on her feet practically all the time. Between her ability to detect bullshit and her usual stressed out appearance, Martha was awfully nice to the two boys. And when they'd both agreed to purchase the accommodation, she smiled, albeit half-dazed, and popped two silver keys into their hands.

"If you need me for anything, I'm just upstairs. If it's an emergency, just start screaming. I'll hear you eventually."

It wasn't long after that the two new tenants began hauling their bags inside. (Sherlock taking near enough the whole day to do so) With their long-winded set-up finally complete, they could, at last, get off their feet and take in the surroundings.

~~~

Sherlock, John noted, was certainly not difficult to live with. He was quiet, and his habits were regular. It was rare for him to be up after ten at night, while John stayed up, continuously texting away to Mary about various things.

11:23 **MaryBerry:** _Johhhhnnnnnn what the fuck do you get fellow gay for her birthday??? Emily's picky as shit and I don't want to mess this up_

11:25  **JAWN:**   _EHHHHHH fuck if I know_

11:25  **JAWN:** _WAIT YES I DO_  

11:30 **JAWN: _[Sent a photo to the chat: GAYS IN CRISIS]_**

11:31 **JAWN:** _how about every_ _lesbian's_ _favourite musical cryptid?_

11:31 **MaryBerry:** _FUCKIN HOZIER TICKETS I LOVE YOU_

Other days, Sherlock spent his day at the hospital, within the confines of his room, or occasionally he took long walks with Toby. Though nothing could truly compare to seeing Sherlock, the day after moving, dump an entire can of red bull into his fifth coffee, while John bore a horrified expression.

As the week went by, John gradually took in the human mess that he lived with. As one would think, his appearance did look somewhat out of place at the hospital. In height, he was rather over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes, while sharp and piercing, still retained a gleam of boyish charm and wit; face posied with everlasting determination. His hands were always more than definitely covered with ink and stained with chemicals, though he'd never fret about it, much to John's dismay. And the distinguishable mop of tight brown curls upon his head, that shielded his face when looking down did seem to seal off his look. Sherlock carried himself just fine.

John (and most other kids from his area) always pictured oil slick-backed hair, neatly pressed uniforms and the aroma of freshly printed money when they thought of the better side of London. Instead, he'd got himself a wild heap of hair, rolled up shirt sleeves and the aroma of caffeine, chemicals and water vapour. Great.

It turned out that Sherlock was indeed not studying medicine. Neither did he want to pursue it academically.

"It's more difficult to learn a subject once you have to get a grade for it." He told John.

His ignorance was as remarkable as his knowledge. This would seem to shy away most people but John couldn't help but stay intrigued. Of literature, philosophy and politics he appeared to know next to nothing. When the younger boy tried quoting Sylvia Plath, Sherlock merely inquired in the most naive way who she might be and what she had done.

Though the main surprise reached a climax, however, when John (who was peacefully eating his pot noodle found out that he didn't know shit about the Solar System.

“I thought you'd be surprised.” he said, smiling at the other's expression. “Now that you've kindly filled me in on the basics, I shall do my best to forget it.”

“Forget it?”

“It's as follows,” he explained, “I consider that a man’s brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with bits and pieces at your own discretion. A fool takes in every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things so that he has difficulty finding what he needs. Now the skilful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his "brain-attic". It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. In summary: useless facts are just that. Useless.”

“But the Solar System!” John protested in a hurry, a noodle sticking out of his mouth.

“The Solar System,” he interrupted impatiently, moving to perch cross-legged on his armchair; “is not what keeps my work afloat, if we went around the moon instead or if the salt from the sea suddenly turned into sugar it wouldn't make a damn difference.”

The boys delved into silence after that, with Sherlock quietly muttering to himself as he returned to tapping at his phone.

John thought twice about bringing the subject up again and instead just pondered over the conversation, eventually growing impatient with what little was actually said. Finishing the rest of his dinner, he swiftly grabbed his own phone and sat back down, startled a little as Toby immediately bounded over to rest at his feet, half of a toy stuffed in its mouth, and began to write down what he knew of his roommate:

SHERLOCK HOLMES—his limits.

Knowledge of:

1\. Literature. — Prefers mainstream old classics (ugh) 

2\. Philosophy. — Need more info

3\. Astronomy. — NOPE

4\. Politics. — ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

5\. Botany.— Varies. (Knows a suspicious amount of poisons.  ~~check drinks!~~ ).

6.  ~~Rocks and shit~~  Geology .— A little more than average (can tell different soils from each other???)

7\. Chemistry.— A LOT

8\. Anatomy.— Okay, but problematic

9\. History. — One of his best sections, most knowledge comes from the 1800s to present?

10\. Plays the violin extremely well

11.  ~~HE USED TO BOX???~~  I could probably take him in a fight (if he keeps putting sulfuric acid on the kitchen counter I might test that theory)

12\. Can list off a lot of UK laws/regulations

 

After finishing the small project, John smiled to himself, but begrudgingly thought better of it and deleted the file just as quick as he'd thought of it.

~~~

31st August 2018

It had been only week and three days at Baker Street and John had been subjected to whatever the hell Sherlock's work was. At first, it was a simple visit by Holmes' acquaintance Gregory Lestrade who seemed to be always in an impatient mood. He was much like Sherlock in his stature and age, but that was about it.

John's and Gregory's first meeting went well enough, the latter had come over to give details on a police case, handing over copies of files etc. When Sherlock had gone to retrieve something from his room, the other boys made conversation and found they shared mutual confusion to the human that was Sherlock Holmes.

"My dad's Inspector Lestrade," He said proudly "works for Scotland Yard and with any luck, I'll be in there soon. I just deliver bits 'n pieces to Holmes when he needs them, an' text him when there's a case I think he should look at." 

The second time, a young girl called, fashionably dressed, and stayed for about half an hour. On another occasion, it was an old white-haired gentleman, and on another, it was a railway porter. When any of these similar individuals put in an appearance at the flat, Holmes asked to use the living room, and John would smile and nod, leaving to go to his bedroom.

"I have to use this room as a place of business," he said, "and these people are my clients." Again John had an opportunity of asking him the point-blank question of what his work was, but yet again John's politeness prevented him from forcing the other to answer.  _He has his reasons_ he reminded himself.

But on the 31st of August, John rose somewhat earlier than usual, and found Sherlock at the kitchen table, a plate of half-eaten toast and the usual cup of coffee beside him as he scrolled through his phone. After fixing himself some cereal (Sherlock had thankfully fed Toby already), he settled on the other side and curiously picked up a magazine from the edge and attempted to while away the time with it. One of the articles had a pencil mark on the heading, and he naturally began to run his eyes through it.

Its somewhat ambitious title was “The Book of Life,” and it attempted to show how much an observant person might learn by an accurate and systematic method of examination. It struck John as a mixture of the "to be honest you have to have a high IQ to understand _____" quote and the face of a smug bastard from the 1800s. The reasoning was close and intense, but the deductions appeared to be far-fetched and exaggerated. The writer claimed by a momentary expression, a twitch of a muscle or a glance of an eye, you could discern a person's inner thoughts.

“From a drop of water,” said the writer, “a logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or the other. Like all other arts, the Science of Deduction and Analysis is one which can only be acquired by long and patient study. Before turning to those moral and mental aspects of the matter which present the greatest difficulties, let the inquirer begin by mastering more elementary problems. Let them, on meeting a fellow-mortal, learn at a glance to distinguish the history of them and the trade or profession to which they belong. Doing so sharpens the mind, and teaches one where to look and what to look for. From fingernails, coat-sleeves, shoes, by the callosities of one's forefinger and thumb, by expressions, by shirt cuffs— from each of these things one's calling is plainly revealed.”

“That's gotta be a fucking shitpost.” John blurted out with a huff of disbelief, throwing the magazine down on the table, “No human talks or writes like that!”   _Or thinks!_

“Find something?” asked Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

“Well it's definitely something,” He replied, pointing at the article with his spoon “You've already read it since you've marked it. Yeah, there's some sense to it, but it irritates me though. It's just some theory of someone who thinks he knows better than everyone online but would freeze at real confrontation. I'd pay to see him get shut down in an argument."

“You'd lose your money,” Sherlock remarked calmly. “I wrote it.”

John visibly stilled and lowered his head towards his food, trying to distract himself by swirling the spoon around in his cereal. “Oh.”

“Yes, It's my method for my work. These cases that Gregory gives me and the clients which I take. Clients that need solutions to their problems. Clients that pay me.”

“That's what you do then?” John asked on impulse.

“I’m a consulting detective, often comparable to a freelancer. When these people are at fault they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right track. If you have all the details of a thousand at your fingertips, it is odd if you can’t unravel the thousand and first. Lestrade's a good kid, his father's a well-known detective. If it wasn't for both of them, the police wouldn't have anything to do with me.”

“Okay so,” The other said, “without leaving your room you can figure out an impossible scenario- which nobody else can, although they have seen every detail for themselves?”

“Precisely."

“Jesus Christ,” John said, smiling. “Should I start calling you Hercule Poirot instead?”

Sherlock rose and took a long drag from his vape.  _I keep forgetting he has that_. “Apparently the greatest fictional detective.” he mused. “Now, in my opinion, Poirot was a good detective, but he had his emotions mostly at the forefront of his investigations. Again, while never a bad thing, it can lead to complications- especially with suspects.”

“How 'bout Miss Marple?- Better yet, Jessica Fletcher?”

Holmes sniffed sardonically. “Jane Marple was shrewd, often prejudiced and liked to gossip.” He complained. “It was lucky that Christie changed her personality in the later books. Jessica Fletcher, however, was enjoyable to watch on 'Murder, She Wrote'.”

Somehow feeling mentally drained by the earlier embarrassment with the article, mixed in with the seriousness of the other's tone, John walked over to the window and stood looking out into the busy street. 

“There are no good crimes these days.” Sherlock carried on, irritably. Though before it could carry on, John swiftly jumped in the moment there was a pause in order to change the topic.

“I wonder she's lookin' for?” He quizzed, pointing to a stalwart, plainly-dressed individual who was walking slowly down the other side of the street, looking anxiously at the numbers on the doors. She had a large blue envelope in her hand,, evidently the bearer of a message.

“You mean the retired Marine sergeant,” Holmes answered coming to stand next to John.

They watched as the woman caught sight of the number on their door, and ran rapidly across the roadway. A loud knock was heard, then a voice below, and finally heavy steps ascending the stairs. Sherlock opened the door just in time, and the woman swiftly handed the teen the blue letter.

Feeling still curious and puzzled, John couldn't help but ask, trying to sound as blandest as possible “What business are you in?”

The woman looked confused (rightfully so) before replying “Navy.” she said, gruffly. “I'm off duty for the next couple of days.”

“And you were?” John pressed on, taking a glance at his flatmate.

“I'm a sergeant, kid. Royal Marines.” And with that, she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The update was a bit later than expected, but that's what you get dealing with your brother's wedding and adopting a cat! Most importantly, this fic has barely started and I'm still overwhelmed at the response i've gotten, thank you!
> 
> Plus we've got our first short appearance from Gregory Lestrade! (if anyone's got questions about any of the characters, please ask away :D ) Also hardly any of Sherlock's dialogue was changed which is freaky but it still fits his character, so it's all good, and I will absolutely never get tired of writing Sherlock vaping, ever.


	4. A Study In Scarlet - The Lauriston Garden Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Scotland Yards 'best' detectives are introduced, a body is examined, and a clue is found.

31st August 2018

 

As John, who was refraining from yet again barraging the other with continuous questions, watched Sherlock tear open the blue envelope with the knife he kept stabbed into the fireplace mantle.

“And to think I said there were no good criminals. It appears that I was wrong—look at this!” He threw over the note which the woman had brought.

“Jesus Christ,” John said softly, as his hazel eyes cast over it, “that's horrible.”

“It does seem to be a little out of the ordinary,” Sherlock remarked, calmly. “Would you mind reading it to me aloud?”

“Mr Sherlock Holmes.

Yesterday night, at 3 Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road, a policewoman on her rounds saw a light there about two in the morning, and as the house was an empty one, she suspected that something was amiss. She found the door open, and in the front room, which is also empty, discovered the body of a man (mid-thirties to early-forties), smartly dressed, and his passport bearing the name of ‘Enoch J. Drebber, Cleveland, Ohio, U.S.A.’ There has been no indication of a robbery, nor is there any evidence as to how the man even died. There are marks of blood in the room, but there is no wound on him. We are at a loss as to how he came into the empty house; indeed, the whole affair is a puzzler. If you can come round to the house any time before twelve, you will find me there. I have left everything as it is until I hear from you. If you are unable to come I shall give you fuller details, but it would do us good if you could even give your opinion on the matter.

From, Detective Tovia Gregson.”

“Gregson is the smartest of the Scotland Yarders,” Holmes remarked; “she and Lestrade are the pick of a bad lot. They are both quick and energetic, but unfortunately, they have their knives into one another, too. They're almost as jealous of each other just as pageant mothers. It'll be a fun case if they're both put together on this one. Though I would feel bad for Gregory.”

"Why? It's just his dad-"

"And his mother."

"What?" the shorter boy replied, a little startled.

"Tovia Gregson and George Lestrade are his divorced parents. He's not too fond of being in the same room as them- but don't tell him I told you that. The last time he found out, he bought up two bags of sewer waste from a case I was working on and 'accidentally' threw the contents on the floor of my chemistry lab."

"Huh." Was all that John could muster to say to  _that_. So he decided to press forward with a different line. “Well then surely you've gotta get going, right? You want me to ring you up a taxi?”

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal as he sat on his armchair and threw his legs over to one side. “I don't know if I should. As my father put it: 'You are the most incurably lazy devil that ever stood in shoe leather'—though i've always disagreed with that one. I can be spry enough at times.”

“Yeah, but isn't this a chance you've been waitin' for? Seems like it to me.”

“Look, John. Suppose that I do figure out the whole matter. You can be bloody sure that Gregson, Lestrade, and Co. will have all the credit for it. It's what happens when you're an unofficial personage.”

“Mate," John started, and stood infront of the armchair. "the  _police_  are asking  _you_.”

“And I'm well aware." After a long pause, Sherlock looked up to the other's face. At this point, John had folded his arms and waited for an answer.

Eventually, Holmes sighed, planted his feet back onto the ground, and stood. "Alright," he stated, and John brightened and smiled in response. "we may as well go have a look. It'll at least be worth it to see what our dear detectives can't figure out.” Sherlock then hustled on his overcoat and bustled about in a way that showed that an energetic fit had sprung onto him. “You'll need your coat.”

“You want me to go with you?”

“Yes, if you have nothing better to do.” And with a smile, he opened the door and made his way down the stairs.

 

~~~

 

It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over the house-tops, looking like the reflection of the grey streets beneath. Within the confines of the taxi, Sherlock prattled away about something to do with the differences of fiddles, and as for John, he was silent. Both the weather and the slightly disturbing case more than dampening his mood.

“You don’t seem to be that bothered about this case thing,” Watson said at last, interrupting Holmes’ musical disquisition.

“No data yet,” the other answered. “It's quite the mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence." He tapped his finger onto his temple. "It biases the judgment.”

“Let's hope you find something soon then,” John remarked, and then pointed to the street. “There's the sign for Brixton Road...and that should be the house!”

“So it is. Just turn in here please.” Sherlock motioned to the driver, and the two boys made the rest of the way on foot.

Number 3, Lauriston Gardens could have well been a house that had frequent murders, given its ill-omened and generally creepy vibe. It was one of four which stood out in the street, two being occupied and two empty. The latter looked out with three tiers of vacant melancholy windows, which were blank and dreary, and a “FOR SALE” sign had been stuck into the dirt just out-front.

A small garden sprinkled over with a scattered eruption of sickly plants separated each of these houses from the street, and was traversed by a narrow pathway, yellowish in colour, and consisting apparently of a mixture of clay and of gravel.

The whole place was very sloppy from the rain which had fallen through the night. The garden was bounded by a three-foot brick wall, and against it leant a junior policeman, surrounded by a small group of onlookers, who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope of catching some glimpse of the events within.

John had imagined that Sherlock would have instantly hurried into the house and plunged into deducing the mystery. Turns out, the thought was wrong (a common theme he'd soon learn to live with).

With an air of nonchalance, Holmes lounged up and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the opposite houses and the line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny, he proceeded slowly down the path, or rather down the fringe of grass which flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground.

There were many marks of footsteps upon the wet clayey soil, but since the police had been coming and going over it, John perceived that it was impossible to see how one could hope to learn anything from it.

At the door of the house, the boys were met by a tall, well dressed, dark-haired woman, with a notebook in her hand, who rushed forward and clasped the elder boy’s hand with effusion. “Thanks for coming down,” she said, “I've had everything left untouched.”

“All except that,” he answered, pointing at the pathway. “It's like a herd of buffaloes had passed along it. No doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before you permitted this.”

“I have had so much to do inside the house,” the detective said evasively. “As you know my...colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon him to look after this."

Sherlock glanced at John and raised his eyebrows sardonically. “With two high ranking members as yourself on this case, there will not be much for a third party to find out,” he said.

Gregson rubbed her hands in a self-satisfied way. “I think we have done all that we can for now,” she answered; “it’s the weirdest case this year, and my son told me you have a taste for such things. Which reminds me, Gregory is here. For experience that is, he shouldn't be much trouble.”

“Wonderful to hear." Sherlock mused with a small smile. “Then we best go and look at the room.” With his remark, the detective seemed to only then acknowledge John, who had said nothing in the conversation.

"I'm not sure that I can permit your friend to go inside Holmes." She said, stepping slightly infront of the entrance. Sherlock, who practically had one foot inside the building, raised an eyebrow.

"He's here for experience," Holmes told her, in a calm manner. "just like Gregory. In fact, I was hoping they could bounce ideas off of each other."

John felt an arm wrap itself around John as he was pushed forward by the taller boy. On instinct, John held out his hand in what he hoped seemed like a genuine introduction.

"John Watson...uh, Detective Gregson. I'm glad to be here--well glad in the sense that I get to see--well not see the-"

"He's here to see the body. Studying to be a Mortician you see." Sherlock jumped in, patting John on the shoulder with the smallest of a sly smile that only the other could see. Thankfully Gregson didn't push any further questions and lead the two inside.

"A Mortician?" John hissed as Sherlock moved to give him space. "Really?"

"Yes."

~~~

 

A short passage, with bare walls and dusty floors, led to the kitchen and offices. Two doors opened out of it to the left and to the right. One of these had obviously been closed for many weeks. The other belonged to the dining-room, which was where the mysterious death had occurred. Holmes walked in, and per usual John followed him with a subdued feeling in his heart which the presence of death often inspires.

It was a large square room, looking all the larger from the absence of all furniture. A vulgar green flaring paper adorned the walls, but it was blotched in places with mould, and here and there great strips had become detached and hung down, exposing the yellow plaster beneath. Opposite the door was a showy fireplace, surmounted by a mantelpiece of imitation white marble. On one corner of this was stuck the stump of a red wax candle. The solitary window was so dirty that the light was hazy and uncertain, giving a dull grey tinge to everything, which was intensified by the thick layer of dust which coated the whole place.

All these details were pushed to the side at the time as the sole attention of the room was centred upon the single grim motionless figure which lay stretched upon the floor, with vacant sightless eyes staring up at the discoloured ceiling.

It was that of a man about forty-three or forty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad-shouldered, with crisp curling black hair, and a short stubbly beard. He was dressed in high-end clothes; a thick coat and a waistcoat, with light-coloured trousers, and immaculate collar and cuffs. A flat-cap, fine and new, was placed upon the floor beside him. His hands were clenched and his arms thrown abroad, while his lower limbs were interlocked as though his death struggle had been a grievous one. On his rigid face there stood an expression of horror. To John it looked more like hatred, such never seen upon human features.

Watson had been unfortunate in his young age to have seen death in many forms, but never in a long time had it appeared to him in a more fearsome aspect than in that dark grimy room, which looked out upon one of the main arteries of suburban London.

Lestrade, who was lean and ferret-like, was standing by the doorway with Gregory and came over to greet them before the body.

“This case will make a stir, Holmes,” he remarked. “It beats anything I have seen, and I've been around a long time.”

“There's no clue?” said Gregson.

“None at all,” chimed in Lestrade.

Sherlock approached the body, and, kneeling down, examined it intently. “You're sure that there's no wound?” he asked, pointing to numerous gouts and splashes of blood which lay all around.

“Positive!” cried both detectives.

“Then, of course, this blood belongs to a second individual— presumably the murderer, if a murder has been committed. It reminds me of the death of Van Jansen, in Utrecht, in 1974. Do you remember the case, Gregory?”

Gregory, who had been looking around at the crevasses in the walls, looked over swiftly in confusion. “I'm 18.”

“Then that means you have around 82 years to read up on it—you really should.”

As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere, feeling, pressing, unbuttoning, examining, while his eyes wore the same far-away expression which was usually seen around the flat. Finally, he sniffed the dead man’s lips, and then glanced at the soles of his patent leather boots.

“He has not been moved at all?” he asked.

“No more than was necessary for the purposes of our examination.” Lestrade replied as Sherlock straightened himself up.

“You can take him to the mortuary now,” he said. “There's nothing else on the body that'll come of use.”

Gregson had a stretcher and four men at hand. At her call, they entered the room and the stranger was lifted and carried out. As the body was raised, a ring tinkled down and rolled across the floor. Lestrade grabbed it up and stared at it with squinted eyes.

“There’s been a woman here,” he stated. “It’s a woman’s wedding ring.”

He held it out, as he spoke, upon the palm of his hand and all present in the room gathered around him and gazed at it. There could be no doubt that that circlet of plain gold had once adorned the finger of a bride.

“Great." Gregson moaned sarcastically, "This complicates matters. Heaven knows they weren't complicated enough already!”

“You’re sure it doesn’t simplify them?” observed Holmes, taking the ring from Lestrade. “There’s nothing to be learned by staring at it. What did you find in his pockets?”

“We have it all here,” said Gregory from behind, pointing to a litter of objects upon one of the bottom steps of the stairs. “A Robert Smith red gold watch. Gold Albert chain, very heavy and solid. Gold ring, with a masonic device. Gold pin—bulldog's head, with rubies as eyes. Russian leather wallet, with cards of Enoch J. Drebber.

The only money he had on him totalled to Four hundred and Seventy quid. There's a Pocket edition of Boccaccio’s ‘Decameron,’ with the name of Joseph Stangerson on the inside. And lastly two letters—one addressed to E. J. Drebber and one to Joseph Stangerson.”

“At what address?”

“American Exchange, Strand—to be left till called for." Lestrade replied as Gregory shrugged. "They're both from the Guion Ship Company and refer to the sailing of their boats from Liverpool. It's clear that this unfortunate man was about to return to New York.”

“Have you made any inquiries into this Stangerson?” Holmes called over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the ring as he turned it over between his fingers.

“I did it as soon as we learned of him,” said Gregson. “I've had advertisements sent to all the newspapers, and one of my men has gone to the American Exchange, but he's not returned yet.”

“Anything been sent to Cleveland?”

“Sent out a message this morning.”

“How much did you tell them?”

“We simply detailed the circumstances, and said that we should be glad of any information which could help.”

Sherlock pivoted around on his foot to face her. “Did you ask for anything in particular that you found important?”

“I asked about Stangerson.”

“And nothing else?”

“I have said all I have to say,” said Gregson, in a slightly aggravated voice.

Sherlock chuckled to himself and appeared to make some remark, when Gregory, who had been at the far side of the room while the conversation was happening, reappeared, rubbing his hands in a proud manner.

“Mom- I mean Miss Gregson and Mr Lestrade,” he started, “I think i've just found a giant clue over on the walls where you both sent me to look."

The young man’s eyes sparkled as he spoke, and he was evidently in a state of suppressed exultation at having discovered evidence before his superiors, not to mention his own parents.

“Over here,” he said, bustling back over, “Now, stand there!” Gregory flicked on his torch and held it up to the wall.

“Look at that!” he said, triumphantly.

In this particular corner of the room, a large piece of wallpaper had peeled off, leaving a yellow square of coarse plastering. Across this bare space, there, scrawled in blood-red letters, a single word could be seen:

 

RACHE

 

“What do you think of that?” cried the aspiring detective, with the air of a showman exhibiting his show. “I assume it was overlooked because it was in the darkest corner of the room. The murderer has written it with their own blood."

"Great find kid," Lestrade grinned, practically slapping his son on the back. "But why was that corner chosen to write it on?"

"Oh! See that candle on the mantelpiece. It was lit at the time, and if it was lit this corner would be the brightest instead of the darkest portion of the wall.”

“And what does it mean now that you  _have_  found it?” asked Gregson in a voice that said 'You're my child and I love you but wheRE'S THE REST?'

“Mean? It-it means that the writer was going to put the name Rachel, but was disturbed before they had time to finish. So a certain Rachel has something to do with it."

"Hhm." Was all Holmes had to say to the theory, while Watson seemed quite happy to see the boy make some sense since he'd arrived at the house.

Quick as a flash, Sherlock had whipped a tape measure and a large round magnifying glass from his pocket. With these two instruments, he trotted noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally kneeling, and once lying flat upon his face.

"Does he usually do...that." John finally managed to whisper to Gregory as the consulting detective lay flat once more at a different angle.

"Yeah. Whatever gets the job done I suppose. I once heard him tell an intern to shut up because apparently, she was  _thinking too loud._ "

As the aspiring doctor and police detective watched as their acquaintance became so engrossed that he appeared to have forgotten their presence entirely, for he chattered away to himself under his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of exclamations, groans, whistles, and little cries suggestive of encouragement and of hope.

 _It's like watching a sniffer-dog look for drugs,_ John evaluated.

For twenty minutes or more the elder boy continued his research, measuring with the most exact care the distance between marks which were entirely invisible to the others. Meanwhile, Gregory and John came onto the topic of the football Premier League and who they respectively supported.

It was great timing when they had finished their small rants and raves since Sherlock had just finished packing his belongings back into his coat pockets.

“They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains,” he remarked with a smile. “It’s a very bad definition, but it does apply to detective work.”

“What do you think of it, Sherlock?” Gregory asked with a hint of personal curiosity.

“I'd be robbing you all the credit of the case if I was to help you,” he remarked. “You're doing so well now that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere.” There was a world of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. “If you will let me know how your investigations go,” he continued, “I shall be happy to give you any help I can. In the meantime, I would like to speak to the constable who found the body. Can you give me the name and address?”

Gregson glanced at her notebook. “Jane Rance,” she said. “She's off duty now. You'll find her at 46, Audley Court, Kennington Park Gate.” Holmes took a note of the address.

“Come along, my dear Mortician, we'll go and look her up." Sherlock stated.

"Though I’ll tell you one thing which may help you in the case,” he continued to the detectives. “There has been a murder, and the murderer was most definitely a man. He should be no more than six feet high, probably in the prime of life, he wears coarse, square-toed boots and smokes cheap cigarettes. He came here with his victim in a usual London black taxi. In all probability, the murderer has a florid face, and the finger-nails of his right hand are remarkably long. These are only a few indications, but they may assist you.”

Lestrade and Gregson glanced at each other with an incredulous smile.

“If this man was murdered, how was it done?” asked the former.

“Poison,” said Sherlock curtly, and strode off. “One other thing, Gregory,” he added, turning around at the door: “‘Rache,’ is German for ‘revenge;’ so don’t lose your time looking for Miss Rachel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been a -while- my dear readers. I started college the beginning of September so things have been a little hectic in finding out when I could start writing things again.
> 
> I think i've settled on using Wednesdays as writing time for this story, so with any luck chapters should be up every second Wednesday starting from today, or maybe a quick upload on Thursdays sometimes. Who knows.
> 
> I did want to say a massive thank you to user " lemon_alien_lime " for writing such kind words that made me carry on wanting to write this damn thing. Here's to hoping you'll see this chapter!


	5. A Study In Scarlet - What Jane Rance Had To Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which theories are formed, an officer is interviewed, and a suspect is revealed.

31st August 2018

 

It was one o’clock when they left Lauriston Gardens. The weather was still dreary and grey, and it seemed as if the air had become thicker since John and his fanatic flatmate had seen the crime scene.

The latter in question had been busy sending a text message for the past 10 minutes, before sighing as he put his phone away.

“What you did back there, at the house," John slowly began. "was actually amazing." Sherlock smiled. “So everything you said, everything, was 100% true? No mistakes?"

“There’s no room for a mistake,” he answered. “The very first thing which I noticed on arriving was that a cab had made two ruts with its wheels close to the curb. Those houses are vacant so it's highly unlikely any other car would park somewhere not close to their property so late at night. Plus it rained for the first time in a week yesterday night, so that's why there are such deep grooves in the ground.

Now since the cab was there after the rain began, and was not there at any time during the morning,--I have Gregson’s word for that--that must mean that was the vehicle that brought those two individuals to the house.”

“Alright, that seems simple enough,” John replied, “but what about the other bloke’s height?”

“Well, the height of a man--or one of masculine build but trust me I'm certain it's a man--, in nine cases out of ten, can be told from his stride and his instinct that leads him to write about the level of his own eyes. And so, as the writing on the wall was over six foot, that's the height he must be. Et voilà, John." 

“Okay, how about his age?”

“Easy, if a man can stride four and a half feet without the smallest effort, he can’t be quite in the white hair department yet. Is there anything else that puzzles you?”

“The fingernails and the cigarettes,” Watson suggested, turning himself in the taxi to face his flatmate better.

“An excellent inquiry." Sherlock began as he mirrored John's action. "The writing on the wall was done with a man’s forefinger dipped in blood. I was able to observe that the plaster was slightly scratched in doing it, which would not have been the case if the man’s nail had been short.

I gathered up some scattered ash from the floor. It was dark in colour and flakey--such an ash is only made by typical cigarettes from corner shops. It's not a particularly good thing that I'm able to know that, but I never have the time for anyone to tell me otherwise."

“I promise this is the last thing, how can you explain the florid face thingy?” John asked, swirling his hand around his face in a gesture.

“Ah, that was mostly a shot in the dark, though I have no doubt that I was right.”

John breathed out a chuckle. “I think I'm gonna get a headache, listening to you answer all these questions. This is insane." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Like, how come these two men chose  _that specific_  house? Where did the driver go? Why the fuck did the victim drink poison? Or better yet, why the fuck did it happen in the first place?!"

There were many other questions John wanted answering, but the list could've filled an entire college essay.

Meanwhile, Holmes just smiled approvingly.

“Well, those are all certainly valid questions one should be asking,” he said. “I do have to admit that there's much to find out, but I've made up my mind on the main facts. And as for to Gregory’s discovery, it's a fake clue."

"What?"

"It's a ploy, a goose chase--I won't go into the details."

"And there's the headache." John muttered into his jacket as Sherlock adjusted himself in his seat.

"You alright there, John?"

"Hm?" the boy began, caught off guard a little, but smiling. "Well, as about as alright as I can be. It's just this is weirdly...fun?" As he looked at Holmes for confirmation, all he received was a curious expression that motioned him to continue.

"I mean that you can do all these things with your brain and you know...your little bag of gadgets. Like, no matter how many times you say the shit you do can be done by a normal person that only needs rational thought, you've somehow managed to not only get  _Scotland Yard_  on your side to give you a little nudge when they need a hand, but you've managed to do it before you've even hit your twenties. And I think that's fuckin' brilliant."

At the end of John's very earnest words, Sherlock looked strangely speechless. He almost wanted to comment something, but a flush of pink by his cheeks made him go for another topic instead. The event reminded John of a message he'd received from Bexley Stamford, a day after moving into Baker Street:

( 01:26 **WEETABEX:**   _He's a sap for compliments. Might not make you a test subject if you slip some in during convos ;D_ )

“I’ll tell you one other thing,” Holmes said, leaning back into the seat and closing his eyes. “Patent leather shoes, size 10 and Square-toed boots, size 8 came in the same cab, and they walked down the pathway together as friendly as possible--arm-in-arm, in all probability. When they got inside they walked up and down the room—or rather, Patent-leathers stood still while Square-toes walked up and down. It was in the dust. The dust all those buggering police walked over."

Sherlock shook his head and opened his eyes back to John as he spoke, "For now, we have a good starting point. I want this case to be done with by tonight. I've managed to get tickets for The Proms, they're doing a run-through of Wilma Neruda's finest, and I'd rather not be late.”

The conversation had occurred while their taxi had been threading its way through a long succession of potholed streets and dreary by-ways. In the dingiest and dreariest of them, their taxi suddenly came to a stand.

“That’s Audley Court in there,” the driver announced, pointing to a narrow slit in the line of dead-coloured brick.

 

~~~

 

Audley Court, to be frank, was not one of the best neighbourhoods. The narrow passage led them into an entanglement of ways to go, the fences draped in England flags. A few kids with dirt on their shoes and most likely bruises on their faces huddled themselves within the alleys. The said alleys were filled with moss and overgrown cuttings from gardens because no-one around could be bothered to deal with it themselves.

John knew these wild accusations for a fact because Audley Court felt like his old home.

He managed to shake off the multitude of thoughts as the two stood infront of Number 46; the door of which was decorated with a small slip of brass on which the name Rance was engraved. On enquiry, they found that the constable had just gotten out of bed, 'the toll of night shifts and all that'. So the boys were shown into a little front parlour by her fiance.

Jane Rance appeared presently a few minutes later, looking a little flushed from getting changed so quickly. “I made my report at the office,” she said.

Holmes hummed to no-one in particular and then proceeded to take a crisp £50 note from his pocket and played with it pensively. “We both thought that we should like to hear it all from your own mouth.”

“Then I'd be happy to tell you anything I can,” the constable answered with her eyes upon the little piece of paper.

“Just let us hear it all in your own way as it happened.”

Jane sat down on the sofa and knitted her brows as though determined not to omit anything in her narrative.

“I’ll tell it ya from the beginning,” she began. “My hours are from ten at night to six in the morning. At eleven there was a fight at the ‘White Hart’ bar; but that all was quiet enough on my route. At one o’clock it began to rain, and I met Harry Murcher--him who has the Holland Grove route--and we stood together at the corner of Henrietta Street a-talkin’. Maybe about two or a little after--I thought I would take a look round and see that all was right down the Brixton Road.

I didn't meet a soul all the way down, though a cab or two went past me. We was strollin' down, thinkin’ between ourselves how we wouldn't mind a cuppa, when suddenly the glint of a light caught my eye in the window of that same house. Now, I knew that them two houses in Lauriston Gardens was empty on account of him that owns them won’t have the drains seen to, though the very last tenant what lived in one of them died o’ hypothermia. I was knocked all in a heap therefore at seeing a light in the window, and I suspected as something was wrong. When I got to the door-”

“You stopped, and then walked back to the garden gate,” Sherlock interrupted. “What did you do that for?”

Jane gave a startled jump and stared at the elder boy with the utmost confusion upon her features.

“Why that’s true,” she said; “though how you come to know it, Heaven only knows. I walked back to the gate to see if I could see Murcher’s flashlight, but there wasn’t no sign of him nor of anyone else.”

“There was no one in the street?”

“Not a livin’ soul, nor as much as an owl. Then I pulled myself together and went back and pushed the door open. All was quiet inside, so I went into the room where the light was burnin’. There was a candle flickerin’ on the mantelpiece--red wax--and by its light I saw-”

“Yes, I know what you saw." Sherlock rotated his hand in a 'let's speed it up' manner. "You walked around the room several times, and you knelt down by the body, and then you walked through and tried the kitchen door, and then-”

Jane Rance widened her eyes with a frightened face. “Where was you hid to see all that?” she accused. “It seems to me that you know a deal more than you should, kid.”

Holmes laughed and threw his business card across the table to the constable. “Don’t get arresting me for the murder,” he said. “I am one of the hounds and not the wolf; Miss Gregson or Mr Lestrade will answer for that. Go on, though. What did you do next?”

Jane resumed her story, without however losing her mystified expression. “I went back to the gate and radioed it in. That brought Murcher and two more to the spot.”

“Was the street empty then?”

“Well, it was, as far as anybody that could be of any good goes.”

John leaned in from his seat. “What do you mean?”

The constable’s features broadened into a grin. “I’ve seen many a drunk chap in my time,” she said, “but never anyone so cryin’ drunk as that. He was at the gate when I came out, a-leanin’ up against the railings, and a-singin’ at the pitch of his lungs about a new-fangled banner, or some such stuff. He couldn’t stand, far less help.”

“What sort of a man was he?” asked Sherlock Holmes.

Jane appeared to be somewhat irritated at this digression. “He was an uncommon drunk sort o’ man,” she said. “He’d hav’ found himself in the station if we hadn’t been so took up with the house.”

“His face--his clothes--didn’t you notice them?” Holmes broke in impatiently.

“I should think I did notice them, seeing that I had to prop him up--me and Murcher between us. He was a long chap, with a red face, the lower part muffled round-”

“Yes yes yes,” cried Holmes. “But what happened to him?”

“We’d enough to do without lookin’ after him,” the policewoman said, in an aggrieved voice. “I’ll wager he found his way home all right.”

“How was he dressed?”

“Just in a brown overcoat.”

“Did he have a whip in his hand?”

“A whip!?--no.”

“He must have left it behind,” he muttered. “You didn’t happen to see or hear a cab after that?”

“No.”

Seeing Sherlock slightly seething, John jumped in to save the remainder of the conversation. 

“Thank you for your time.” he told her, standing up and pulling up Holmes by his coat lapel.

By the time they'd exited the house, Holmes turned around, needing to speak otherwise he'd explode. 

“The man who you held in your hands is the person who holds the key to this murder. It was him who we're looking for. We do thank you for your time, Miss Rance, but we're sorry that you managed to waste it.”

And with that the boys walked off down the road together, leaving their informant to close her door with slight embarrassment.

 

~~~

 

“Idiotic, blithering, bumbling fools!” Holmes said, bitterly, as he stuck his hand out for a taxi after exiting the estate. “You're given the chance to have an incomparable bit of good luck, and what do you do?"

Sherlock turned to John, seemingly wanting an answer to his question.

"You...take advantage of it?” Watson ventured, a little bit more than slightly intimidated.

"Exactly!"

It was fortunate then for a taxi to arrive moments later, giving a chance for Sherlock to calm down, (seeing as how he'd be in the company of another party) and a chance for John to breathe.

He sure was going to have a whale of a time telling all this to Mary.

As the two settled in their seats, John found himself asking, "Why should the murderer come back to the house after leaving it? That's not a very criminally way of, well, being a criminal.”

“The ring, John, the ring: that was what he came back for. If we have no other way of catching him, we can always bait our line with the ring. I shall have him, I’ll bet you two to one that I'll have him." he looked and smiled sincerely at John, "I suppose I have to thank you for it all."

"Oh, do tell?"

"Well I might not have gone in the first place if it wasn't for you, and so I could've missed the finest study I ever came across." He shuffled and leaned back in his seat. "How about: _A Study In Scarlet?_ Why not give a name to remember it by. There’s the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact! Holmes originally offered Rance a half-sovereign, which roughly equals about £33 (a skilled workers wage in the 1890s) so I rounded it up to £50.
> 
> Also, I think I'm finding my feet and writing a little better now so when I get to a certain point I'll go back to the previous chapters to do some editing!


	6. A Study In Scarlet - Our Advertisement Brings A Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which; John can't sleep, the ring is called upon, and visitors arrive at Baker Street.

31st August 2018

 

The morning’s exertions had caused John's initial joke of a headache to grow into a bitch of one. By half-four, Sherlock had departed for the concert, leaving the other boy to his devices. Toby, thankfully, was resting upon the carpet near the flat's faux fireplace, a toy stuffed in his mouth.

Once the menial tasks of re-arranging books and staying far away from whatever chemicals Sherlock had conducted with the night prior were done, John took it upon himself to just lie down and get a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep.

It was a useless attempt.

His mind couldn't help but concern itself with everything that had occurred. The victim's face, in particular, popped up every now and again which  _certainly_  didn't help.

Faces soon became questions and questions slowly melted into a bigger bitch of a headache. Eventually, John gave up and instead grabbed a slightly worn copy of  _'This Is Going To Hurt'_  a comedic take on being a medical student by one Adam Kay.

"Mortician my ass." John murmured into the air, recalling the lie Sherlock told detective Gregson hours earlier. After a minute passed, ever so suddenly, he had a thought. He abandoned the book and rushed into in the living area. In doing so he startled up Toby, the canine giving out a yelp as feet brushed passed him.

"Sorry boy, my bad." the boy managed to say, as he bounced onto the sofa. With the laptop in hand, he opened a blank document and began to write.

After coming back home from " _The Accident",_ John's parents had taken him to see a counsellor--they couldn't afford a therapist, with the amount of money it cost to send him to the hospital back in Afganistan.

He liked the woman who saw to him every week, she didn't blindly radiate positivity and she didn't say the cliche words often seen on screen. She let John talk on his own time, let him ask questions, and didn't object when he arrived for a session with Mary instead of his parents.

When the time to do Physiotherapy rolled around for his leg, She talked him through his exercises and also what not to do when you're recovering from being shot in the leg.

She did give John a piece of advice at the end of their first session; To write down new experiences.

Boy, did it hurt to see her leave.

 

~~~

 

Holmes returned at about half-past eight, and found John at the table in the kitchen, aimlessly colouring in parts of the day's newspaper with a pencil.

“It was magnificent,” Holmes said, as he took his seat opposite John. “There was rather a humorous man in the row infront of me you see. As the interval started, he claimed that the power of producing and appreciating music existed among the human race long before we could speak. That's why we appreciate it so much."

“That’s quite far-fetched, innit'?” John remarked with a lopsided smile, trying to hide the fact that just remembered that he hadn't removed his binder since the morning. 

_Shit._

“I suppose, but ideas must be as broad as nature if they are to interpret it,” Sherlock answered. “What’s the matter? You’re not looking quite yourself." He looked almost troubled at John's expression. "The case is a bit much for you, isn't it? I don't mind if you say so.”

“No no no, not at all!” the younger boy replied in earnest, waving his hand to further his sentence. “Trust me, i've seen a lot worse. I'm just tired, it's been a long day.”

If Sherlock thought those words came from experience, rather than knowledge, he didn't show any sign of it in his face.

“I understand." Holmes looked down at the newspaper that had been graffitied on with various swirls. "Have you read any of it yet?”

“No.”

“Check page three, it gives a fairly good account of the affair at Lauriston. It doesn't mention the wedding ring, which is a good thing.”

“Why?”

"Look at this advert,” he answered, and opened up the paper to page five. “I messaged an acquaintance of my brother after we left the Gardens. He's got a good say in what you put in the news these days."

John glanced at the place indicated. It was the first announcement in the 'Found' column.

'In Brixton Road, this morning,' it ran, 'a plain gold wedding ring, found in the roadway between the White Hart Tavern and Holland Grove. To inquire, see Mr Watson, 221B, Baker Street.'

“Excuse me for using your name,” Holmes said. “If I used my own some dunderheads would recognize it, and want to meddle in the affair.”

“It's alright,” John said with a small shrug. “But um, we can't just give the ring away, how are you gonna find a way to deal with that?”

“Oh yes!,” Sherlock replied, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out an almost identical golden band. “This should do very well.”

“So who are we expecting to answer the ad?” John said as he took the ring from his flatmate.

“Why, the drunkard in the brown coat--good old square toes. Though if he doesn't show it'll probably be an accomplice instead.”

“You think he's scared?”

“Not at all. If my view of the case is correct, and I have every reason to believe that it is, this man would rather risk everything than lose the ring.

As my theory goes: He dropped it while stooping over Drebber’s body, and didn't know it at the time. After leaving the house he discovered it was missing and hurried back, but by then the police were already at the scene, having seen the candle burning.

He'd pretended to be drunk in order to sway suspicion over his appearance at the gate. Now put yourself in that man’s place. On thinking it over, it must have occurred to him that it was possible that he had lost the ring in the road after leaving the house. What would he do, then?

He would eagerly look out for the papers in the hope of seeing it among the articles. His eye, of course, would light upon this. He would be overjoyed. Why should he fear that? To him, just some lucky person happened to stumble across it. No reason to think it could connect with the murder in any way. I'll bet you he'll be here within the hour? Maybe less."

“Okay, and...then?”

“Oh, you can leave me to deal with him then." As Sherlock made his way to stand, he paused. "This may sound...weird, but do you know how to throw a punch? Or block one at least.” The question was asked with some reluctance.

John smiled. “I grew up playing football on offence at one of the roughest schools in London, so yeah, I can do both.”

The other simply nodded, “Then you better be ready. He's quite a desperate man."

 

~~~

 

Upon Holmes' request, John had placed Toby in his room, as not to agitate their future visitor.

 _"Just a necessary precaution."_  He'd said while scratching behind the canine's ears.

John sat cross-legged on his armchair, typing out hurried replies to the plethora of questions he'd received from Mary about the case. Holmes, on the other hand, had engaged in his favourite occupation of scraping upon his violin. After a few minutes, Sherlock's phone pinged and within a flash it was within his grasp.

“Well this is getting interesting,” he said; “I have just had an answer to a message I put out to an American. My view of the case is correct.”

“And that is?” John asked.

“That this violin needs some new strings,” he remarked nonchalantly, plucking at the said strings. “When the man comes, speak to him in a usual way. Leave the rest to me."

"Anything else?"

"Don’t frighten him by looking at him too hard.” 

John glanced at his phone, trying to refrain from rolling his eyes. “It's almost nine o’clock now,”

“Yes. He will probably be here in a few minutes. Open the door slightly. That will do. Now put the key on the inside. Thank you!”

“I think,” John spoke, after putting down the key, "I think I'm not as freaked out as I should be."

"Good. That means our ring collector won't think anything's amiss."

As he finished his sentence, there was a sharp ring at the bell. Holmes rose softly and moved his chair in the direction of the door. Footsteps passed along the hall, and there was a feeble tap at the door.

“Come in,” John called, with enough courage one teenager could have when faced with a task such as this.

Instead of the man of violence whom the boys had expected, a very old and wrinkled woman hobbled into the apartment. She appeared to be dazzled by the sudden blaze of light, she stood blinking at them with her bleared eyes, her hands fumbling in her pocket, nervous and shaky.

Watson took a glance at Holmes, only to find his face ripe with disappointment.

The old woman drew out a newspaper and pointed at their advertisement. “This has brought me here,” she said, dropping her head to give a nod of thanks; “a gold wedding ring in Brixton Road. It belongs to my daughter Sally, she was married only this time last year you see, and she's been in fits looking for it! She-"

“I take it that this is it?” John interjected, holding out the ring in his palm.

“The Lord be thanked!” cried the old woman; “Sally will be so glad to see it again. That’s the ring.”

“Can I ask what your address is?” he inquired, taking up a pencil.

“Of course dearie. Number 13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch. It's a weary way from here.”

“The Brixton Road does not lie between Houndsditch,” said Holmes sharply.

The old woman faced round and looked keenly at him from her little red-rimmed eyes. “The boy asked me for  _my_  address,” she said. “Sally lives at 3, Mayfield Place, in Peckham.”

“And your name is?”

“My name is Mrs Sawyer-- and my girl is Sally Dennis. She married that Tom Dennis--a smart, clean lad, too, as long as he’s at sea, no steward in the company more thought of; but when on shore, what with the women and what with liquor shops-”

“Here is your ring, Mrs Sawyer.” John interrupted, after getting a signal from Sherlock to cut her off short. “It clearly belongs to your daughter, I'm just glad to be able to give it back to its owner.”

With many mumbled blessings and protestations of gratitude, the woman packed it away in her pocket and shuffled off down the stairs. Holmes sprang to his feet the moment that she was gone and rushed into his room. He returned in a few seconds, his jacket now exchanged for a long coat. “I’ll follow her,” he said, hurriedly; “she has to be an accomplice, and with any luck, will lead me right to him. Wait up for me.” He said the last part with a smile.

The hall door had hardly slammed behind our visitor before Holmes had descended the stairs. John moved to look through the window. He could see the old lady walking feebly along the other side of the road, while Sherlock pursued her, some little distance behind.

 _Either his whole theory_   _is wrong,_  he thought to himself,  _or this could actually be a lead. One weird, weird lead._  

Even though Holmes told John to wait up for him, there was no need for him to ask, if sleeping before seemed difficult, now it was impossible.

 

~~~

 

It was close upon nine when Sherlock set out, and Toby was let out of the bedroom, nose heading straight for the food bowl in the kitchen. It was Ten o’clock when he heard Martha Hudson turn in for the night. Eleven when all that remained of noise was the traffic outside. And twelve before the sharp sound of a latch could be heard.

The instant Sherlock entered John saw by his face that he hadn't been successful.

Any form of positivity seemed to be struggling to breathe in the air around them, until the wind-swept Holmes suddenly burst into a laugh.

“Gregory's never going to let me live this one down if he finds out,” he cried, dropping into his chair; “Luckily, I can afford to laugh because I know that I'll be even with them in the long run.”

“Are you okay?” John asked with concern and bewilderment at the other's action.

“The old woman-" He began, waving off the question, "Mrs Sawyer, stopped for a cab just down the road. She practically sang her damn address to the whole street. ‘Drive to 13, Duncan Street, Houndsditch,’ she cried. This begins to look genuine, I thought,  and once I saw her inside, I ran through the alleyways and backstreets up to the address--told you I could be spry at times didn't I?--to meet the cab at the other end.

I stopped running before they came to the door, and strolled down the street in an easy, lounging way, hiding my face of course. I saw the driver look back into the cab, his eyes widening before turning to the backseat. By then I knew something was up so I crossed the street to see. There was no trace of his passenger. She'd gone.

I knocked the door after the cab had left. The house belongs to a man named Kevin Keswick, and as I feared, he knows no-one with the surname Sawyer or Dennis.”

“Wait wait wait wait,” John started, in amazement, “are you telling me that that tottering, old woman was able to get out of the cab while it was _still driving_ , without either you or the driver seeing her?”

“Argh, screw the old woman!” said Holmes, sharply, putting his head in his hands. “Whoever she was, she was a bloody good actress." He moved his hands to ruffle through his hair, before looking John dead-on. "It's got to have been a young girl, and an active one, too. The get-up was too well done. She saw that she was followed, no doubt, and used that to give me the slip. At least this shows us something, John."

"It means he's definitely got friends who know their stuff."

"Exactly. Now, my aspiring Mortician--alright my apologies, you don't need to look at me like that, I'll stop--you're looking too out of it. Take my advice and turn in.”

Not being one to object being told to go to bed by anyone, John nodded in thanks to his advice and left the space to head to his own room. Holmes was still seated in front of the faux fireplace, and long into the watches of the night John heard the low, melancholy wailings of the violin, and knew that his flatmate (friend?) was still pondering over the strange problem which he had set himself to unravel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, almost missed the upload date there! 
> 
> I've written up more of John's background which, hopefully, will go along swimmingly in the chapters to come. As tagged, this is a slow burn, but for so many other reasons other than relationships.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around!


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